Figment
by EmilianaDarling
Summary: Dave Karofsky hates Kurt Hummel. Wants to punch him in that pretty mouth, show him just how abnormal and wrong and sick he is. Dave hates him so much his fists clench, and his jaw hurts, and his stomach twists so hard it feels like he's going to be sick.


Dave Karofsky is not a fucking faggot. He's _not_.

He likes pale cleavage peeking out of tight tank tops, and short skirts on slutty girls at parties, and skinny bitches bouncing up and down on fat cocks in the YouPorn videos that Azimio likes to forward him in e-mails. **"Thot u'd like this, nice tits**!" sitting in his inbox for days before he can bring himself to click the link and watch the damn thing, trying so hard to feeling something other than discomfort.

Dave Karofsky is not a fucking faggot because he likes women. He does. He likes their stupid-ass games and their manipulation. He likes to talk shit about girls with the boys after practice, call some chick in class a slut or a lesbo and have his friends laugh and clap him on the back and accept him. He likes his teammates' easy understanding and the simplicity of it all.

He hates homos. He hates the way they talk, and walk, and shove their fucking abnormality in everyone's face. He hates the way Hummel walks through the halls like he's _proud _of something. Fuck, what could he be proud of? It's disgusting and wrong and that boy needs to be taken down a few pegs.

But.

But when he's alone in his room full of posters of sports players and cars and not a single goddamn chick, and his parents have gone out for a romantic dinner together and left him with some leftovers to pop in the oven, and the tension in his body is so profound from practice he can barely move, he can't hide it anymore. He can't hide behind the bright colours of his letterman's jacket or the bravado or his anger. On his bed, wearing a pair of old pyjama pants with a hole in the knee and a plain black shirt, feeling so alone and angry and disgusted with himself.

With his cock in his hand, Dave can't hide from himself anymore. All of the things he is supposed to think about – pink nipples on soft breasts, the heat between a girl's legs, the curve of a rounded ass hiding behind a tight pair of jeans – all melt away. Instead, there is Hummel.

Goddamn Kurt Hummel, his lips full and soft and wrapped around Dave's cock like it's what they were made for. Kurt, refusing to break eye contact, bobbing up and down with a sly, almost smug look on his face. His tongue flicking around the tip of Dave's cock teasingly before plunging back down again, swallowing him up and making him gasp. In his mind's eye, his fingers tangle in Kurt's hair, urging him on, _making_ him go on.

He imagines Kurt's fucking absurd clothes spread haphazardly around the room like he couldn't give a shit, couldn't fucking wait to have Dave's cock in his mouth. Like he cares more about giving Dave what he wants than his brand name fluorescent scarf or whatever the fuck. He sees impractical shoes hastily kicked off and tossed aside, expensive jeans shucked without consideration.

Dave pictures Kurt's stylized hair getting mussed from his clenching fingers, his long pale hands tightening on Dave's much larger hips as Dave fucks his mouth and shows him and just _ruins_ him.

He inhales sharply as he comes, hard and fast, pleasure making his whole body tighten and sing because this is right, this is perfect, and he _wants this so badly_. The Kurt in his mind's eye mewls softly in surprise and swallows him all down. He rides out the aftershocks, tries to hold onto the image as long as he can, but –

The image of Kurt vanishes as quickly as it came upon him. Dave breathes heavily, sounding loud and ugly and humiliating in the empty room. He feels embarrassed and filthy, unwanted and unknown. He opens his eyes and looks at the spackled ceiling, the suddenly loud sound of a clock ticking filling his ears.

The come on his stomach and hand is starting to cool. He leans over to grab a tissue, begins to clean himself up, and hates himself.

* * *

><p>Seeing fairyboy happy makes him fucking pissed. Dave catches glimpses of the small, slight boy in the hallway, wearing something ridiculous or prancing around like what he is <em>doesn't matter<em>. He seems happy, and proud, and like a pissy bitch. He's flamboyant and ludicrous and limp-wristed and a diva, and he deserves all the shit he gets for thinking he can act this way in public. He huffs and scoffs and rolls his eyes and Dave wants to punch him in his fairy face and _show him_.

But then he'll see Kurt bite his lip sympathetically and nod as that fat black chick looks upset and blinks more than strictly necessary, his graceful pale thumb stroking across her arm once in a gesture of unquestionable empathy. See him grin at a text message he receives and laugh to himself, sound dancing in the air. See him sing like truly means it, heart on his sleeve and a smile on his face through the music room window.

Dave catches glimpses of the strong, determined person Kurt is. That spark that glows in him and flares up and fucking hurts. Because Kurt Hummel tells the world to fuck off every single day by dressing the way he does, and acting the way he does, and Dave is so jealous it physically hurts.

He shoves Kurt –fag, homo, fairy, _fuck_ – into some lockers later that day, shoving him so hard his head cracks against the flimsy metal. The look of shock and pain and _resignation_ on his face makes him feel better, for a second.

Then it makes him feel a million fucking times worse.

He keeps shoving him over the next week. Push it, hurt it, make it go away. If Kurt looks more and more haggard and fragile every time, Dave ignores it.

* * *

><p>That night Dave dreams of pinning Kurt against those same lockers, holding Kurt's slim shoulders in his much larger hands and holding the smaller boy in place. Except this time, Kurt doesn't look surprised or angry. He's <em>giggling<em>, lascivious and playful and tugging at the waistband of Dave's jeans. Kurt has a huge grin on his face, and his features are somehow... _sharper_ than usual. More defined, more angelic, more beautiful. Everything attractive about him has been amplified tenfold, and Dave can't believe how goddamn_ lucky_ he is to not only have this boy at his mercy, but willing and wanting and desperate and _his._

He leans down and kisses Kurt, and _ohgod_ it's perfect. Kurt's lips are softer than any girl's he's ever kissed, mouth hungry and enthusiastic , teeth nipping at Dave's lip in an urgently sexy way. Kurt's breath is growing harder and more ragged, and he tightens his grip on Dave's hips and pulls him in close so their cocks rub hard against each other through two pairs of pants. Dimly, Dave is aware that there should be people in this hallway. It's daytime, brightly lit. How are they alone here? Shouldn't someone – a teacher, a student, anyone – be screaming at them to lay off the show? How did this happen?

Dave shoves the thought away. He wants Kurt to be wearing fewer clothes, so he is. The world _shifts _and his grey cardigan, white button up, bright red tie and slacks just seem to blur away – and Dave realizes that he's naked, too. Kurt moans, hand flying up to cover his mouth, and Dave shoves his hand away and attacks the pale length of his neck, wanting that noise to continue forever as they grind desperately together.

The world shifts again, and he is fucking Kurt Hummel against the lockers. Kurt's legs are wrapped around his waist, arms gripping his shoulders and moaning like a whore as Dave thrusts in deep and _takes_ him. Dave is vaguely aware that this position should be awkward and uncomfortable, that he should be straining from holding Kurt up like this, but it's just right instead. Dave has never had anal sex before; his mind supplies the sensation of sex with a girl only better, tighter, more genuine and open than he could ever be with a woman. Kurt is taking his cock as Dave's hips begin to snap harder, wrenching a desperate, broken noise out of Kurt's throat. Kurt squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in Dave's shoulder.

This feels amazing, _perfect_. Kurt's body is tight and hot around his cock and he's still making a high keening noise of pure ecstasy. Dave's gripping Kurt's hips so tightly he is going to leave bruises, going to mark that pretty pale skin and _claim_ Kurt, make him _his._

"Ahh!" Kurt cries as Dave pounds into him, so close, _so close_. "Oh – oh, _God_. Dave, I love –"

He wakes to the feeling of hot, wet heat in his pyjama pants and the choke of shame in the back of his throat.

* * *

><p>The next day, Kurt corners him in the locker room. Kurt is fucking pissed, and fighting back, and shouting frantically at him as his flawlessly styled hair flies out of place. He is strong and angry and not letting up.<p>

Dave grabs his face and kisses him.

For a moment, it is perfect. Kurt's lips are hot and soft, and this feels so right. _He _feels so right. There is nothing false about this.

When Kurt shoves him away, the look of terror and horror on his face breaks his heart.

Dave slams the locker, shouts. He runs.

* * *

><p><em>Oh god oh god oh GOD what the fuck was that. Why did I – he – fuck, he made me. That faggot made me do that to him, grab him and— oh god that was so good. I want that. I want <em>him_. He's going to tell everyone, oh Jesus. Everyone will know. Oh,god, Azimio will know. My parents are going to know. They know I'm – he – fuck, that fucking faggot. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him kill him kiss him __**fuck**__. Why did I do that. WhydidIdothatohgod._

* * *

><p>Dave returns home when he should be at school, boiling and furious and his eyes stinging. Neither of his parents are home. He slams the door to his room, barely managing to stop himself from punching the wall. He hates himself so fucking much – fucking freak, fucking broken. He's livid with himself for outing himself, for basically admitting that he's – that he –<p>

He hates Kurt Hummel. Fucking bitch, making him do that. Standing there screaming, getting so close he could feel Kurt's breath on his lips. He hates Kurt for being so painfully tempting, and for what that means about him.

Dave cries out, a wordless bellow of pain and anger and disgust, and slams his palms against the wall. He sobs and pants and if men cried, he would be doing that. He hears a litany of names for what he is burst through his mind.

_Faggot. Queer. Homo. Fairy. Pansy. _

He throws himself onto his bed and breathes hysterically into his pillow, fingers turning white from gripping it so hard. He is still wearing his letterman jacket, stilling wearing his shoes. His eyes are still stinging determinedly and there is a choking feeling in his throat, but he pushes those things back. He's fucking shaking.

It takes a few minutes for the panic to subside, for his breath to calm to the point where he is no longer in danger of hyperventilating. His breathing slows, his fingers unclench, and a hollow feeling settles in his stomach. Tomorrow, everyone at school is going to know. His friends are going to turn on him. He'll be the one getting slushied. Kurt Hummel will be laughing in his boots. Everything is going to be over.

Slowly, the hollow feeling begins to fill with anger. Not at himself – he just _can't handle that right now_ – but at Kurt Hummel. Kurt fucking Hummel, the fairy who ruined his life. Fucking bitch wanted to wreck it all, take everything he had away. Fucking _bastard._

Dave tries to keep the rage untainted, pure – but his anger at Kurt has always been interwoven with sex and want and frantic desire. As hard as he tries to stay exclusively pissed, the tension of arousal begins to build at the base of his spine and his cock begins to harden.

_Fine,_ Dave thinks, _fucking fine._ Shoes and jacket and all, Dave unzips his pants, pulls out his cock, and begins to fantasize.

Dave pictures the locker room as his hand jerks roughly up and down, seeing the red lockers and the benches and that _Look_ on Kurt's face. Full of shock and fear and revulsion, horror that a caveman like him would ever feel worthy to kiss those fucking perfect lips.

He wants to wipe that Look off Kurt's face.

In his mind, Dave doesn't run away this time. Instead, he rushes forward and slams Kurt against the lockers, yanking Kurt's hand away from his face in a pale imitation of the hallway dream. Kurt gasps – really _gasps_, like they do in the movies, Jesus Christ – and Dave grabs both of Kurt's delicate hands in one of his large rough ones and kisses him brutally hard, a crush of lips against lips. Kurt's head slams back into the lockers; he twists and jerks and makes these little breathy _mmf _noises, but he can't get away. _Fucking fairy can't get away now_, Dave thinks, ignoring the fact that it was he who had run from the locker room, he who had run away like a little bitch.

Dave imagines his grip on Kurt's hands between them stays strong, and this works because he is bigger and stronger and more powerful than Kurt is. The kiss keeps going, hard and fierce. Kurt has stopped making the little noises now, but he's _shaking_, and fuck if that isn't the single hottest thing Dave has ever felt in his life. Dave bites down on Kurt's lip fucking _hard_, a claiming gnash of sharp teeth on delicate skin. Kurt keens softly and Dave tastes copper. _Mine._

Dave stuffs his free hand down Kurt's unreasonable plaid pants, finding Kurt's small warm cock and curling his fingers around it. He tugs, hard, and moves his mouth to Kurt's long pale neck, exposed and waiting for him to nip and bite and suck at it. There is a stream of words coming out of Kurt's mouth, but Dave can't hear them over the buzzing in his own ears, the rustling as he strokes Kurt hard and wanting and squirming so prettily for him. Dave sucks at Kurt's throat. He is going to leave a mark there that everyone can see – and everyone will know to back the fuck off, because Kurt is _his _and he is never fucking letting go.

As he strokes, Kurt's words are beginning to steep into his addled mind. Dave notices that there are tears running down his face. The meaning of his words is beginning to come clear.

"Karofsky, please stop." Kurt is sobbing, shaking. "_Please_. You don't know what you're doing. I don't want – I – you – ah!"

In his mind, Kurt comes. His semen spills onto Dave's hand as he begs him to stop.

In reality, Dave comes over his own hand, some sticky white fluid splashing onto his pants and shirt.

There is a moment of pure, hollow shock as the contents of the fantast – his own fucking fantasy, what the hell – hit him fully. Then disgust hits Dave like a physical blow, his stomach filling with revulsion and sickness and oh, god, he's going to throw up.

He runs to the washroom, all dignity forgotten, and dry heaves into the toilet for ten minutes. His hand is still covered in come, and there is salt on his cheeks.

The next day he runs into Kurt and his Pretty Boy boyfriend. He's jealous and angry and pissed that they would bring this up in such a public space, that Pretty Boy is small and thin and just Kurt's_ type_, that he has exactly what Dave wants and will _never_ appreciate it as much as he would.

He smacks Pretty Boy around a little, shows him who he's up against. But no one else at school has seemed to know about him being – _that _– when he came in today, and he is still profoundly shaken by the twisted, sick fantasy of yesterday afternoon. When Kurt yells at him to _stop this_, shoves him, looks at him with sad eyes, he backs off.

Lets Kurt be.

Lets the two faggots be.

Because Dave Karofsky is not a fucking faggot.

And he can always come for payback later.


End file.
